


Stare Down at the Wonder of It All

by novastar



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: And Hannibal is okay with that, And murder husbands in the end, Hannibal is a jealous bitch, It's really just porn, M/M, More than okay, Will dreams of nothing but murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5242028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novastar/pseuds/novastar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And your empathy?”</p>
<p>“I become whatever they want me to be. It feels good to be somebody else for a change.”</p>
<p>“How are you feeling in this moment?” </p>
<p>“Powerful. Like something has snapped into place, finally and truly.” He doesn’t want to be separated from this man, not now, not ever; not when he’s finally found somewhere he belongs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stare Down at the Wonder of It All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IWillBeTheEndofYou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWillBeTheEndofYou/gifts).



> I don't even know where this came from! I haven't published a fanfic online in like seven years, so oh god, so nervous right now.
> 
> Title from Mumford and Sons' 'The Wolf'.
> 
> Not beta-read, but neurotically read over and over again, so hopefully nothing's too off. All mistakes are definitely mine!

Bite marks, scratches, and bruises all dot Will’s skin. Hannibal’s expression doesn’t change as he slips Will’s shirt off, but he suddenly becomes eerily and uncharacteristically silent. Will stands there, next to Hannibal’s bed, and keeps his hands on his hips, refusing to be flustered by the wandering eyes and unrestrained animalistic rage he can sense simmering underneath Hannibal’s skin.

“You had not mentioned sexual partners during our sessions.”

“Didn’t think it was important. It’s not that kind of therapy.” 

Hannibal reaches out and brushes a particularly vivid bruise below Will’s collarbone, as if by touching it, he can sweep it right off of Will’s skin. There’s a look of concern, of memorization almost, as if these other partners of Will’s have shattered him in ways that Hannibal can’t or won’t fix. As if they have taken what was rightfully his and sullied it.

“What, did you think I was going to be a virgin? That you were going to sweep me into your arms and teach me how a real man acts?”

“Those were not my intentions, no. And you are a grown man, it would make sense for you to be experienced in many ways of the world.”

Will nods. There’s nothing to say, of course he’s experienced. Hannibal can see that, and whatever he chooses to make of it is up to him. If Will was a virgin, it wouldn’t make sense for them to be here right now. Will had just come over for dinner, was supposed to be gone by now. Instead, here they are. Dessert in the fridge forgotten, Will’s shirt on the floor, and Hannibal gripping Will’s side as if he means to break through the very flesh.

Hannibal stares for a minute, making a decision. He leans over, bending at the chest, and suddenly without warning, latches on to Will’s collarbone. He’s biting over the old mark found there, several days old by this point, but still a mark of possession that Hannibal does not intend him to wear for one more second. It hurts, perhaps more than it did the first time, but it feels good. It feels damn good.

Cold air skims over his flesh, prickling his skin as Hannibal pulls away. A quick glance confirms to him that the mark has changed, the red tint to his flesh now laced with sharper points to the canines. He falls back to the bed, spreading his legs and waiting. He never takes control in these things, he’s always curious what other people will do. That’s Will, never quite in his own mind. Afraid of what he might find, what he might do, if he is.

Hannibal doesn’t play around, he quickly rips Will’s pants down; he says rips because he can hear them tearing, but he doesn’t care. They were old anyway, he has more. Underwear follows, and Hannibal doesn’t even take a second to appreciate Will’s form, his erection ignored as Hannibal presses a hand between his thighs and forces him to spread his legs. The snap of a cap, and before he can stop and think, there’s a lubed finger pressing urgently into his hole, no foreplay, just right down to it. Will doesn’t know how he expected sex with Hannibal to be, but this feels slightly askew, as if there’s another side to Hannibal currently being exposed, if only Will would take the time to stop and see it.

If Hannibal is afraid of how rough he’s being, there’s nothing in his eyes to give him away. Nothing in his body language either, and as Will lays there, writhing and impaled on three of Hannibal’s fingers, those fingers that are so elegant while preparing food or playing the harpsichord, but so rough and angry inside him, he wonders if Hannibal is even capable of feeling afraid. If he wouldn’t just reach inside Will and tear out everything that someone else had touched, rend the bruises from his skin and replace them with injuries of his own making, fuck Will until he forgot everything, maybe even his own name, and turn him into something purely of Hannibal’s creation.

As a fourth long finger traces along his rim, just teasing with no actual pressure, Will wonders if he even cares. If this wanton creature being pushed close, so close, to his edge without breaking is exactly what Hannibal wants. If he can see something within Will that nobody else can and he is currently using Will’s body as a physical manifestation of that vision. Pushing him beyond and making him all the stronger for it. Then the fingertip is dipping inside, just pressing to the end of the nail, Hannibal gently stroking him from the inside out, even as the rest of his fingers flex and move rapidly. In that moment, Will has no doubt that he is Hannibal’s now, a treasured possession, but a possession nonetheless. They hadn’t discussed limits, hard or soft, but even with the bruises littering Will’s skin, Hannibal has to know that attempts at fisting aren’t first time fuck activities. But maybe he’d known that Will wouldn’t try to stop him either, that he’d lay back and keen, press down and if he’d wanted to make noise, it would be to beg for more.

Hannibal bends down, hair falling over his eyes and brushing against Will’s dick as he brings his head down to rest between Will’s thighs. He seems entranced by how eagerly Will is opening to him, how little he’d had to fight to get Will exactly where he wanted him. When the damp heat of Hannibal’s tongue brushes against where their bodies meet, Will finds himself screaming, as if it is beyond his control, as if Hannibal means to eat him alive.

As if the thought didn’t strangely turn him on. Not the actual being eaten alive part, Will does enjoy being alive as much and as often as he can, but existing as part of Hannibal. Knowing that they were part of each other; mind, body, and soul. One existing because of the other, and not knowing which was to blame for it.

His hands move of their own accord, reaching out and grabbing onto to Hannibal’s hair, whether to pull him closer or away from him, he isn’t entirely sure. But the second he feels the strands between his fingers, far softer than he had expected, Hannibal pulls back, Will’s hand falling back to his side as he suddenly feels both empty and ridiculously exposed. 

He is now being admired, as if he is a work of art, unfinished but close to completion; rather than a man in his mid-30s currently sprawled out on his sort-of-therapist’s bed, having just taken four fingers up his ass and still craving more.

Will can feel his skin flushing, the heat rising to the surface and taking color, the longer that Hannibal stares. He notices that the other isn’t even completely naked yet, tries to figure out if he would be, or if he just plans on fucking Will like that, suit half on, maintaining the façade he regularly showed to the world. Then as if by psychic connection, Hannibal reaches down and strokes a finger – thankfully from the other hand, even Will has his limits – across Will’s lips before standing and starting to strip. 

Without his clothes, Hannibal is different. The garish designs and bright colors serve as a distraction, make him seem mild-mannered, eccentric in his elegantly decorated world, with his lavish dinner parties and trips to the opera. In his clothes, he seems to be a slightly wealthier version of seemingly anyone, a bachelor in his 40s, maybe gay, maybe straight, nobody knows; but comfortable. A man who wasn’t much of a threat.

Without, he is dangerous. He is broader than his suits make him, large and imposing; his muscles implying a lifetime of manual labor and feats of strength; but when? When was he doing anything of the sort? Will can’t picture Hannibal at the gym, and he certainly wasn’t going around getting his hands dirty when he could pay someone to do it for him. But that’s how he seemed, the man staring down at Will looking all too much like an apex predator, and at this moment, that’s all Will wants him to be.

So when Hannibal climbs back onto the bed, grabbing Will’s thighs to situate himself between them, when he leans over and suddenly their faces are far too close, Will finds himself letting out a short growl, animalistic and raw. Hannibal doesn’t startle, but his top lip curls slightly, exposing his teeth that have always seemed vaguely fang-like to Will. Will has established himself, in one small, slightly off-the-cuff move, to not just be a playtoy of Hannibal’s, but something almost equal, somebody who could do everything Hannibal did with the right provocation. 

Suddenly, Hannibal’s fingers are back at his hole, spreading him open and behind them, the head of his dick, pressing teasingly, damp with lube that Will hadn’t even seen him apply. He isn’t wearing a condom and they hadn’t discussed it; Will thinks about the immense trust Hannibal must have in him to go without, even after seeing the remnants of Will’s clearly abundant sexuality spread across his skin. Rather than concern, Will feels possession. 

Hannibal is going to mark him in a way he hadn’t let others do before, and he won’t be able to erase it. Thinks about how Hannibal would lean over and smell him when he thought that Will wasn’t looking, wondered if Hannibal could smell the others, if he knew that Will was clean for the grace of not smelling the stench of disease on his skin. Wonders if from here on out, Hannibal would smell nothing but the familiar smell of himself, and if there were others out there who would smell it on him as well, know that he was taken by something more powerful than them.

Will has always considered himself to be a ferociously independent man, but now, laying on his back with Hannibal’s dick fucking into him too slowly for his tastes, he wants to belong to this man. He wants to stand by his side and have everyone know it. He has a desire to have everyone fear them, look upon quiet, frumpy Will Graham and eclectic, fancy Hannibal Lecter and instinctually cower. It was odd, the urges Hannibal brings out in him.

Hands on his shoulders, a quick and slightly painful jerking motion, and suddenly he is on top; straddling Hannibal’s hips as he sinks down, ass resting on Hannibal’s thighs once he is fully seated, feeling as powerful as he is full. He presses his hands to Hannibal’s chest, fingers sprawling through chest hair, tightening just enough to be felt. Hannibal, in turn, brings his own hands up to wrap one around Will’s hip, and the other against the right side of his ribcage, engulfing a bruise that would now no longer fade, merely be replaced.

“Tell me about them.” The first words either of them have spoken since Will had first landed on the bed, offered himself up as what, a sacrifice?

“The bruises? Or the people?” He can feel Hannibal’s fingers digging in tighter, a constant reminder.

“It is not only our experiences that shape us, but also those who give them.” He is much too fluent for a man in the midst of sex, and for a second, Will is angry. They were fucking, he should be quiet, should be awed to be underneath Will, who knows himself to be a force of nature.

They both still as Will begins to talk, weaving words instead of twisting his hips. “If you want their names, I don’t have them. I didn’t want them. Never do. There’s a bar, over on the other side of town. I just go and nurse a whiskey and wait for the best offer to come along. Always their place, never mine. People get the wrong idea when you take them home.” Fingers drift from his ribcage, trace down over his ass and one comes to rest against his hole, rubbing where Hannibal’s dick meets his body. If Hannibal wants more, he’s going to take it, and Will is going to accept it. There are no wrong ideas here.

He continues. “They always use protection. That’s a rule. Other than that, I let them decide.”

“And your empathy?”

“I become whatever they want me to be. It feels good to be somebody else for a change.”

“How are you feeling in this moment?” The finger breeches, fitting in alongside Hannibal’s dick like it was supposed to be there all along.

“Powerful. Like something has snapped into place, finally and truly.” He doesn’t want to be separated from this man, not now, not ever; not when he’s finally found somewhere he belongs. Someone who understands. Someone who has not just his dick and his fingers inside Will’s body, but is also in his mind. Hannibal can see Will, really see him, and in this moment, it has never been clearer. Now that he has Will, he will never let him go.

Will falls silent, squirming in Hannibal’s lap until the other man takes the hint, pulls his finger free, and grabs onto Will’s hips. Holds him in place as he starts fucking into him, really fucking into him this time, no doubts and no concerns about Will’s comfort or safety. He is Hannibal’s to use, to create or destroy as he deems fit, and it is on that thought that Will suddenly comes. Other than Hannibal’s hair, his dick hasn’t been touched once, but it doesn’t seem to matter, and he watches his come land and glisten over Hannibal’s stomach and chest and he groans. Hannibal has been marked as his as well.

He runs a finger through the come closest to his hands, and brings it up to Hannibal’s mouth. Lips don’t part of their own accord, but Will presses down, rubbing his finger against pointed teeth, and he knows Hannibal is tasting him and he knows that without a doubt, Hannibal would take more. He would bite down on Will’s finger; not violently, but not gentle, enough to draw blood to the surface, enough to taste the life that flows just under his skin. But he doesn’t, and when Will leans down and kisses Hannibal’s cheek, finger still pressed between his lips; Hannibal comes. Will can feel his dick twitching, feels the warmth that comes along with satisfaction found, pleasure finished. 

When Hannibal pulls out, maneuvering Will off of him to lay at his side, Will twists his arm around and touches himself, feels where Hannibal’s come is starting to leak out of him. He strokes gently, no penetration, it’s not the same when he does it to himself; just enough to feel the slightly tacky slick that possesses him. He doesn’t bring it up to his mouth, he just lays back and watches calmly as Hannibal gets up. 

Water runs in the bathroom as Will can see Hannibal’s reflection in the mirror, scrubbing at his stomach with a washcloth, erasing Will for the moment, but never for long. He re-enters the room, new washcloth in hand, and Will follows the touch of a gentle hand, rolling onto his side and letting Hannibal clean him. 

The washcloth is dropped into a hamper sitting covered in a corner and Hannibal returns to bed, pressing a hand to the small of Will’s back, but not curling up behind him, letting Will guide the way the rest of their evening will go. Here, in the moments after sex, is when Will finds himself the most uncomfortable. Returned to his skin, he is no longer the object of someone’s desire, he is the twitchy man who is uncomfortable in the presence of others and who hides himself under layers of faded plaid and glasses that, were one to look closely, actually have no prescription. 

“I should probably get going.” He makes a move to sit up, half expecting Hannibal to stop him. He doesn’t.

“You are welcome to sleep here. If you are uncomfortable sharing a bed, there is a guest room you may use.” It is late. Too late, realistically, for Will to be leaving. His dogs are fine, his neighbor knows to check on them if Will’s car isn’t in the driveway. Nosy and small town she may be, but she has her uses. 

Will leans back into where Hannibal’s hand has found his back again. “I just don’t make a very good bed partner, is all.”

“Your nightmares?”

Will lets out a sigh, world weary and it’s clear this is a discussion he’s been avoiding having with anyone, let alone Hannibal. It’s why he goes for anonymous fucks, why he doesn’t stick around. “Yes, my nightmares.” He makes no move to move further, but neither does he move to lay down.

“Do you dream of your work? Of murders on a loop within your memories, of crimes that Jack Crawford has not yet forced you to solve?”

“Of sorts.” The words spill out of him as if his sex-fevered desires were true, as if Hannibal is going to hear his words and reveal himself to be as fucked up as Will, like they are going to rule a blood-soaked world together. “I dream I am them, sometimes. I feel myself committing their murders, life dreaming from their victims as if I stole it from them. Lately, I dream of the Ripper.” 

Hannibal interrupts, uncharacteristic, but his hand has tightened at Will’s side. “Do you also dream that you are him?”

“No. I don’t know who he is, so I can’t be him, not yet. He’s a shadow to me, but I stand beside him. I watch as he kills, as he crafts, and –“ He cuts off, doesn’t want to go any further. He knows if he does, Hannibal will kick him out, send him away. Everyone has their limits, Will’s are just more vague than others.

“And?” Hannibal’s voice is calm and persuasive. He wants Will to continue, honestly and truly wants to know what makes Will tick. What he dreams of, what he doesn’t want to let himself want.

“And he watches as I help. I stand beside him, not as a profiler, not out to catch him. I stand beside him as an equal. How fucked up does that make me?” 

There is silence behind him, and at first Will stiffens, ready to run, ready to stutter out platitudes about how it’s just a dream, it doesn’t mean anything, he’s really and truly not a threat, nobody has to know. Then Hannibal brushes Will’s hair up, settling his hand against the back of Will’s neck, a move that manages to be calming and threatening in equal measure. “It means you have more potential than you realize, Will.” And what does that mean?

Hannibal stands, offering a hand to Will. It’s unnecessary, but he takes it anyway, stretching up from the bed to stand next to Hannibal. “Come join me for a glass of wine before bed, I must insist.” Still formal, even naked. Hannibal slips on a robe from a hook by the door, and holds out a spare one for Will. He takes it, slips it on. It’s too big on him, falling past his knees, boxing him in in a way that makes him feel small and childlike. Even tied, it falls from his shoulders, and he finds himself shrugging to readjust. 

He’s a minute behind Hannibal, and by the time he enters the kitchen, Hannibal is waiting, glass in hand. He’d probably decanted the wine before Will had even turned up on his doorstep. Will accepts it politely, but as he stands there, too big robe and too little appreciation for whatever nuances this wine has to offer, he doesn’t feel like Hannibal’s equal, not yet. 

They drink in relative quiet, hushed conversation about the banalities of life. Will wonders if this is what couples do, he’s never really been in a relationship, doesn’t know if he wants one. Hell, he doesn’t know if Hannibal even does relationships, if he’d want one with Will, if this isn’t just another one off fuck and somehow, even this, Will has managed to fuck up.

Will finds himself yawning before the end of his glass, a sudden overwhelming exhaustion taking hold in his bones. He apologizes, and Hannibal nods, smiling at him. Hannibal doesn’t seem as affected by the wine as Will, perhaps it’s an experience thing. Will doesn’t consider himself a lightweight, he knows he’s on the teetering edge of a drinking problem, but this wine and this atmosphere, and he’s well fucked and ready for bed. So he doesn’t resist as Hannibal takes the glass from him, setting it on the counter before placing his hand on Will’s shoulder and guiding him up to bed. 

The last conscious move Will makes is to pull Hannibal down to him, pressing up against the other man’s side and closing his eyes. May the nightmares grant him peace this night.

He awakens late, the sun is in his eyes and his phone is blaring from the nightstand. He doesn’t remember placing it there, but he must’ve. The battery is low, so he knows he never charged it. It’s Jack. There’s another scene, he thinks it’s the Ripper, so can Will please hurry it the fuck up and solve this mess? 

There’s a fog in his head, the remnants of sleep, that he can’t quite manage to shake. He asks Hannibal to accompany him to the scene, if he wouldn’t mind driving. They sit quietly on the drive there, Hannibal’s constant classical music turned down but still audible. Will is fixated on the road ahead of him, it’s just another crime scene. Get in there, close his eyes, lose himself for a few, and then he’s done. But there’s something in the air. It’s a feeling as if they are driving to a fixed point in time, something that will make or break the rest of it, whatever it is. Is it right for Will to be doing this, to be dragging the man who fucked him last night to a blood-strewn crime scene not even twelve hours later? To have sat there and confessed to dreaming about murder and then to, the next morning, show Hannibal exactly what kind of fucked up he truly is. Even though he already knows. Hannibal already knows, and yet here he is.

The crime scene isn’t as elaborate as the Ripper usually demands, but Will knows it’s him. There’s an art to the body, an elevation beyond the obscenities of death. The man is strapped to the tree with vines and a delicate silk rope, such as the type one would use in bondage play. Will knows these ropes intimately. Just as he knows the victim. He stares at the man, at the branch shoved between his teeth as a makeshift gag, looks at the teeth. The slightly askew canines that are an exact match for the bite marks on Will’s chest. The same rope that had left bruises against Will’s ribs. 

He takes a deep breath, centers himself, and allows himself to slip away. This time the Ripper isn’t a shadow, no, Will can see him clearly. He watches himself sleep, snaps a finger next to his own ear before quickly getting dressed and slipping away. He makes the hour drive to Wolf Trap, and then the thirty minutes more to the Maple Leaf. He orders a whiskey, sits at the bar, and waits. He knows it won’t be long. The man approaches him, gestures. They don’t need words. Suddenly, he can’t maintain the hallucination, he wants, needs, to see the crime as it truly was. Suddenly, he’s separate from the murderer, standing invisible as he watches Hannibal talk to the man, ask him about a short curly-haired quiet guy that’d been in the other night. The man laughs, nods, he knows Will, what of him? 

And that’s it. His fate is sealed. The same hands that caressed Will’s skin as he tied the ropes ever tighter now fight back, futile and useless against a predator like Hannibal. Because Hannibal is him. He’s the Ripper, he’s what Will has been hunting, craving, needing. Hannibal is the Ripper, and he fucked Will last night. He fucked Will and listened to his dreams, his darkest desires, and look what he did. He made them a reality. This man, broken and tied, examined by the very same man who’d caused him to die; this man is a confession. A love letter. 

He turns slowly, blinks his eyes. Makes it look real and effortless. He glances at Jack, a quick nod. It’s him. The Ripper has ripped again, and now they must be on the lookout. The Ripper always kills in sounders of three, and a cycle has began anew. 

Then he tilts his head to look left. Hannibal is standing there, unwavering in his stance, morning coffee clutched in one hand. He looks unfazed by the fact that Will knows. He looks like he is debating whether Will is going to be his next prey, if the next crime scene Jack uncovers will be none other than Will Graham himself, Jack’s hero turned victim, the Ripper will be forever a mystery without him around.

Will pauses, looks Hannibal up and down, a very subtle yet focused motion. He’s considering, and it doesn’t take long. He smiles at Beverly, takes the coffee she offers, and moves effortlessly towards Hannibal. Hannibal, who believes Will has more potential than he realizes. Hannibal, who sees Will and wants him by his side. Hannibal, who will rule this world along with Will, and they will watch as others learn to fear. 

They will kill together, then they will return the next day. Will will analyze his own crimes for Jack, Hannibal by his side as he relives every graphic filthy moment, and then they will go home and they will fuck. They will exist in a space all their own, and when it comes time for them to move on, they will. It’s too late for separation now.

**Author's Note:**

> I literally do nothing but reblog Hannibal things on Tumblr, but I need friends, so follow if you want!  
> notacannibalreally.tumblr.com


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